Night on the Town
by Arcana Mortis
Summary: Ever wondered what Jack did after she met up with Shepard at Purgatory? (This is a commission fic, written for the awesome guy who drew my profile picture) Pairing is Jack/OC. If you want to review, that would make me so happy there aren't even any WORDS for how happy I would be :D. I've never written Jack POV so please tell me if you think I got her wrong.


Shepard is late. He's an hour late and Jack is getting pissed – not in a good way – sitting in Purgatory doing fucking _paperwork_ and waiting for Shepard to show the fuck up.

"Hi."

She looks up. There's a man standing over her table. She gives him a once-over. No threat. Military – Alliance, probably, the way he stands - and nervous. He doesn't smell of biotics, just paper and leather and guns.

"The fuck do you want?" she snaps, because she's not on fucking duty right now and she can say whatever the _fuck fuck fuck fuck _she _fucking_ likes.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"Why, you think it'll get you laid? Fuck off."

He flushes and she looks back down at the datapad – anything's better than looking at another fucking moron who thinks that the price of a drink is going to make her drop her panties and scream his name like some fucking schoolgirl at prom.

"Um."

"Still here? Are you deaf or something?"

"I'm sorry, maybe I should start over. I'm Sergeant Allen Jackson, of the 614. Your boys and girls saved a whole lot of lives in that last fight, mine included. So, can I buy you a drink?"

She remembers that battle, holding the barrier over the 614 while they waited for pickup, or backup, or any fucking thing other than the fucking reapers and their twisted fucking freakshow. It had been closer than she admitted to herself and if the 614 hadn't held the fucking line, if they hadn't protected her kids as much as the other way around, nobody would have gotten out of that alive.

"Tequila. Lots of tequila," she says, and turns back to her paperwork.

She hears him leave and, moments later, the thump of a bottle on her table.

She looks up. It's some salarian shit, expensive as fuck and goes down like a drunk asari. She's always figures salarians make the strongest booze because they don't have time to fuck around. Mordin had agreed, drunkenly theorizing on short life spans and wasting valuable time drinking that piss the asari call alcohol. Humans call this salarian tequila. When they remember to call it anything at all. Jack likes it. It can get her drunk, after enough of it. Not many things can.

There's a shot glass next to it.

She smiles up at Sergeant Jackson and pours herself a shot. He holds up an empty glass and she nods, and he fills his too.

"To the 614," she says. "And whatever pisshole you get sent off to next!"

"To the Psychotic Biotic and her merry men," he says, laughing, and they clink glasses and knock back the not-tequila. It's smooth fire in her mouth and throat, and when she breathes in after drinking it's ice-cold and delicious.

He leaves her alone after that, and she goes back to her paperwork, tossing shots every now and again from her rapidly-emptying bottle.

"Drinking on the job?"

"Fuck off, Shepard, I'm off duty. And you're late."

He settles himself in the chair opposite her, glancing at the bottle, then back at her.

"Expensive stuff, salarian tequila."

"What can I say. Grateful soldiers." She shrugs and looks back up at him.

"You sharing?"

"Fuck off, Shepard," she says again, and hooks the bottle closer to herself. The world is going soft around the edges, just the way she likes it, and she can look at him now. Get drunk enough and nothing matters. Not even that he's gone back to that fucking asari, with her innocent eyes and…she takes another shot. "Get your own booze."

He does, and she listens to him talk, knocking back more of the good stuff to keep from saying something stupid, for hours. They dance.

Well.

Jack dances.

She doesn't know what the fuck Shepard thinks he's doing, but it's not dancing, and he looks ridiculous. It makes her feel obscurely better. He's a cheating bastard, but he can't dance for shit and she likes that he looks stupid.

Then Shepard leaves, and she goes back to her seat where there's a fresh bottle of the good stuff waiting, with a note from Jackson inviting her to join his squad for more drinks.

She strolls, a little unsteady with the bottle in her hand, over to them, and they make space on the couches. They're welcoming and it feels strange, because she's still used to suspicion and distrust and even fear. She likes it, and shares some of the booze they clubbed together to buy for her with them.

Allen Jackson sits by her side, smiling and watching his squad, sipping something black; he tells her that it's Guinness. It tastes like fermented puke and she tells him that and everybody laughs.

It's a fucking awesome night and later, when Allen –he asked her to call him by his first name and she agreed because Jackson is a fucking bitch to say when your tongue isn't working all that well - is walking her back to her rented room – who the fuck would be insane enough to try anything with her anyway, she doesn't need a fucking protector – she sings dirty songs at the top of her voice while he tries, equally drunk, to shush her.

The first shot takes her by surprise, no fucking warning and she's let her barrier down like a fucking amateur and the shot goes through her arm. She cries out, just a little, surprised, and slams up all her barriers – if there's one good thing she learned from Cerberus it's how to throw up a fucking barrier while she's stoned out of her fucking skull – while Allen pulls a pistol she hadn't even noticed before and – smart boy – tucks himself against her, taking cover inside her barrier.

The second, third, thirtieth shot whines off her barrier or falls to the floor but during the seconds their assailant was firing Jack has pinpointed his position and she _focuses_…and there's a high scream, sharply cut off. It turns out to be your average lower-wards shit-for-brains, probably thought they'd be easy prey. Fuck him.

"You okay?" Allen asks, taking her arm in his hands and turning it over.

Jack hisses and he apologises, gently looking over the wound.

"It's going to hurt like a bitch for a while."

"Yeah. I have medigel at my place, come put it on for me." As a proposition, not the best she'd ever done, but she could have just _died_ and if that fucking piece of shit's aim had been eve a tiny bit better she _would_ have been dead and right now she needs some fucking skin on skin and Allen is handy.

He nods, and they walk the rest of the way to her room quickly and quietly. She keeps her barrier up. They leave the dead man on the floor where he fell; the keepers will take care of it.

He sits her down on the edge of the bed and cleans and treats the graze – well, alright, the giant fucking hole in her fucking arm that completely fucks up one of her favourite tattoos – with the quick and gentle skill of someone who's done this way too many fucking times. He has nice hands, she notices, and begins to imagine that maybe she will enjoy screwing him.

Not that it matters.

When he folds up the little first-aid kits she takes his face in her hands and kisses him.

He pushes her away. Pushes _her away. _Who the fuck does he think he is?

But he's meeting her eyes seriously.

"Jack, you're drunk."

"What the fuck's that got to do with anything?" she snarls, looking away. Of course she's fucking drunk, she's never fucked someone stone-cold sober before and she's not planning to do it either. Shepard doesn't count. Shepard never happened and she never thinks of the night they shared. Not ever.

"It wouldn't be right. I'd feel like I was taking advantage."

She laughs, and wonders what god she pissed off this time. A fucking gentleman. What the fuck did she do to deserve this?

"Look, Allen. It's a simple fucking equation. I want to fuck. You're here. So fuck me. Not exactly rocket science, man!"

"You're drunk," he insists. He's more than a little soused himself, and she can recognize drunken fucking stubbornness when she hears it.

"Well fuck you, then," she says. "You can just fucking watch."

"Or I can leave."

"Door's locked," she says, and starts undressing.

She makes a production of it. She has a fucking awesome body, and she knows men like looking at it. So when she slides off her pants she bends over until her hands almost touch the floor and smiles to herself when she hears him gasp.

He'll come around.

In the meantime, she ignores him as she fluffs up a pillow and gets settled. This is going to be _fun_.

"Got a nice view there?" she asks. His eyes are fucking _glued_ to her and it's delicious, the way he can't stop staring, the way his hands are already in fucking fists at his sides.

She starts slow, stroking her hands up her neck and down, stopping just above her breasts. She's already turned on, from tequila and nearly dying and fucking _life_, but she's playing to her audience now so she goes slow, avoiding the obvious spots and just…touching. Fucking sliding her hands down her body like she's worshipping herself, and her breath comes out on breathy little pants because she wants, she fucking _wants_ so bad. And when she touches her breasts she gives a little cry even though she knew it was coming because holy fucking _GOD_ it feels amazing to be doing this where someone can see, where someone is fucking _watching_ and wanting her and his eyes are like hands on her skin, better than hands because you can close your own eyes and not see anything but the fucking _want_ and none of the coming pain.

Her hands are like they aren't even her own anymore, teasing her until her nipples are hard as stone and they move on, tracing the tattoos on her stomach light as fucking butterflies, and she wets a finger in her mouth and draws over the tattoo with her spit and it's fucking cold on her and she needs a mouth on her right fucking _now_ but he's still standing over by the door, hypnotized by her hands and her body and the breathy little whimpers she can't seem to stop.

So she spreads her legs for him, wanton and not fucking caring, and slides her fingers between her legs, and she's so fucking wet and aching and she's not Jack anymore, she's just all fucking _want_ and _need_ and she's teasing herself and pleading with herself, her hands moving restlessly from her wanting centre to her breasts, and she's almost surprised, almost fucking disappointed when he hits the bed with a thump that startles her.

She doesn't open her eyes, doesn't want to see hands other than her own on her right now. He surprises her, thought, with his sweet hesitant touch, a stroke down the side of her neck that burns like fucking _fire_ and his mouth comes down on her breast and she whimpers as he sucks and licks and does it all so fucking _gently_ and who the fuck wants gentleness? Gentleness gets you hurt. But she doesn't say a damn thing _can't_ say a thing because the only words she knows right now are 'fuck' and 'please' and 'yes' and she holds his head to her and tries to move his hand to where she wants it but he doesn't care what she wants.

His hands roam her body, worshipful and playful all at once, drawing patterns in fire on her skin while she writhes and pants below him and keeps her hands in his hair, as he starts kissing down her body, following the lines of ink like a roadmap, a map that meanders over her body. He pauses for a while at her belly-button, and it tickles and she surprises herself by giggling a bit.

He moves on, lower, and she lifts her hips, begging, pleading for him to please fucking touch her already, and he lowers his mouth to her, wrapping his hands around her hips to keep her still and fuck fuck _fuck _but he's good at this, every touch of his tongue, every breath calculated to send her fucking flying and Jack is surprised to hear herself making a high, helpless keening sound and he wraps his lips around the burning little nub at the heart of her and she's screaming and coming apart and fucking _shaking_ like she's having a fucking _seizure_ or something and ohgodohgodohgod he's not stopping he's _not_ _stopping_ and she comes again, and again, helplessly riding the waves of pleasure but still aching, still unfilled and then he moves and sheathes himself inside her in a single swift motion that sends her over the edge yet again and she wraps her legs around him and moves with him, whimpering high and breathless as she clings to him. He's not going slow anymore; he's fucking her hard, slamming into her almost violently and god that's just what she needs and she wraps her arms around him too and just holds on for the ride, every thrust breaking her apart again until she's shattered and whimpering and exhausted and incofuckingherent and he's holding her head still and kissing her like she's his fucking _oxygen_ and she doesn't know where he ends and she begins and she doesn't care because he's got her on the edge of pleasure again and she comes apart in his arms again and screams and hears him groan her name into her neck before she shatters into blackness.

When she opens her eyes again it's to the sound of her alarm beeping, and Allen is by her side, still groggy with sleep.

"Wake the fuck up, Jackson, we're late!" she says, and slaps his naked – very nice – ass as she gets up to head for the 'fresher. She misses Shepard's fucking shower, with real fucking water, and every time she has to use the sonic 'fresher in her cheap rented room she hates him a little more, but this morning it doesn't matter because her body is sore and strained and she feels fucking _glorious_, like she could fly or walk on fucking air or something.

The 'fresher is big enough for two and Allen joins her just long enough to get clean before ducking out to get dressed, and she wonders what his fucking issue is. Consenting fucking adults, right? Not that he actually consented but fuck him, he didn't have to join in.

But when she comes out of the 'fresher he's waiting for her, and the bed is made and her room is tidy and she has to blink away fucking _tears_ because he's being a fucking gentleman and she doesn't know how to deal with it.

He comes up to her and takes her face in his hands, framing it like she's something precious and beautiful, and kisses her. It's soft, and sweet, and –she heard one of her kids use it once and didn't have a fucking clue what it meant until she looked it up – chaste, and when it's over he smiles at her.

"Thank you for last night. And for saving my life," he says.

She may actually be fucking blushing, but she does know that she can't meet his eyes, and her voice comes out shakier than she'd like when she speaks again.

"We should do it again sometime. If you want."

He laughs softly and touches her ponytail, lifts up her face and smiles like the fucking sun and it's too bright to look at and too beautiful to look away, and kisses her again.

"I'd like that very much, Jack."

And they don't say anything else, but when they leave her room they're touching shoulders and she maybe looks up and smiles at him once or twice but who the fuck cares anyway?

They're all going to be dead soon. Anyone who tries to fuck with this thing they have is just going to be dead a bit sooner, that's all.


End file.
